Choices
by Silverr
Summary: Franz takes Albert to a brothel. ** for Kink Bingo. ?/Albert.


Disclaimer: Gankutsuou: The Count of Monte Cristo is copyright Mahiro Maeda, GONZO / Media Factory, GDH, Geneon, and Funimation. No infringement or disrespect of owners of existing copyrights in Gankutsuou or its derivative works is intended by this non-profit, noncommercial amateur fan fiction.

Description: Franz takes Albert to a brothel.

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**Gankutsuou: Choices**

_by silverr_

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Franz waves a thick stack of money in his face. "Let's go!"

"Where?" Albert asks, grabbing his cloak as they run across the lobby of the Grand Luna Hotel and out into the night to the waiting carriage.

"It's a surprise!"

"Oh, someplace wicked?" Albert asks with a laugh.

"Of course!"

"Tell me!"

"No!" Franz pulls down the shades. "It's a secret!"

Albert cannot tell from the sound of the metal hooves striking the street where they are going. "Can't you give me a hint?"

"We are going to the land where any dream can come true," Franz says, running his thumb over the stack of 10,000 Lunayuro bills, "as long as you pay in advance."

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The brothel is on a dark, discreetly-lit street. Inside, a blinded servant mutely takes their coats and hats and canes, and ushers them to a large parlor. A dozen screens show a variety of girls: blondes, redheads, brunettes, with skin of almost every hue. Some are nude; others have costumes. Most of them are alone. Some sit demurely; others display themselves in poses that make Albert blush and look away.

He sits uneasily in one of the deep brocaded high-back chairs while Franz talks to the matronly woman who has come into the room. It feels wrong of him to be here, wrong to buy a body, wrong to live in a society where this is a profitable profession for a woman willing to sell herself, to give up her free will, to put herself completely at the whim of her customer.

He hears the matron laugh softly. He looks up: Franz has left the room, obviously having made his choice.

Albert rests his head against the side of the chair and stares at the changing screens, at the breasts and thighs, and they all blur together until he sees ... _her_.

She is different than the others; quite tall, with wavy blue-black hair. A boyish figure – narrow hips, small breasts – disguised even more by the mannish suit she wears. Albert feels his cheeks burn at the sight of her – so unlike Eugenie! – and is mortified when the brothel matron appears at his shoulder to whisper in his ear. "Ah, a superb choice. Not for you the mundane and everyday, Monsieur! She will meet you in Room 30, and is yours to command for the rest of the night." Then she hands him a black mask, and as if in a dream, Albert puts on the mask, then stands and moves down the indicated hallway.

He can barely grasp the doorknob, so shaky is he with excitement, with fear, with possibility. He finally finds the courage to open the door, and inside she stands waiting for him, lit only by a lone candle on the windowsill.

She bows from the waist, and asks softly, "Tell me what you desire. Anything you request is yours," and her voice is a deep contralto that both thrills and disappoints him.

"I want," he says, and clasps his hands together, "I want," and his voice drops to a whisper, "Blue skin. Cold hands – " He is almost sobbing, from shame, from need, from despair, but she nods and points to the foot of the bed. He sits. As she leaves his stomach twists and his legs tense to run, but when he hears the lock click in the door he is relieved, so relieved, to be trapped here.

He sits and stares at the candle, and when the flame gutters he wishes that it would go out so that he could hide in the dark, but he stays, pressing his fists against his growing arousal, hoping that she will get it wrong so that he can leave, hoping that she will get it right so that he can be free.

More than an hour goes by. He waits and hopes.

The candle is almost gone when the lock clicks again and in walks a figure, top hat, swirling cloak, dark goatee, blue-gray skin. "I have paid twenty million to buy you for an hour," the voice says, dark as bloody velvet. "Don't waste my time sitting there. Undress."

_Twenty million? _He gasps, and stands, turning to face the headboard, unbuttoning his shirt and then his trousers with trembling fingers, pulling them off, all the while feeling the eyes searing his back, viewing him not as Albert de Morcerf but as purchased flesh.

Once he is nude he waits, shivering a little, his breath hitching as the wavering flame from the candle throws towering, misshapen shadows on the wall. He hears the click of boot heels on the wooden floor, a rustle of cloth, and then a cold hand is on the back of his neck, pushing him forward and he thinks that he should cry out _If I, Albert de Morcerf, submit willingly to your possession, I am more than purchased flesh!_ But instead he obeys silently, propping his elbows on the bed, resting his forehead on the coverlet, closing his eyes as cold fingers slide between his legs, commanding him to splay wider; a hand cups his balls and he moans; so cold the touch, such fire it creates. Dagger-sharp nails graze his belly, his erection, then withdraw; strong fingers dig into his hip as something wet and cold presses at his opening; then a huge, icy bluntness enters him, merciless, unyielding, and he sobs from the humiliation, the agony, the glory of it as he is split open and the core of his being set ablaze ...

"Albert."

Startled, he jumps and sees Franz's face bending over him. They are in the parlor, surrounded by screens flashing blonde, redhead, brunette.

"Only you could fall asleep in a brothel," Franz says, turning to blow a kiss to a dark-haired, beauty-marked gamine in a maid's uniform, "although it seems you had pleasant dreams." He nods down at Albert's painfully-tented trousers. "Surely we could find someone to take care of that for you?"

"No, let's just go," Albert mutters as unexpected tears make the room into an Impressionist painting, breasts and thighs melting into shimmers, sunlight on a lake. He takes his hat and cloak and cane from the brothel servant, runs down the steps into the street, and throws himself into the dark carriage before Franz can say more.

"I'm sorry," Franz says quietly as he pulls the carriage door shut and raps on the ceiling. "I thought you would have fun. I didn't know it would upset you."

Albert shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk." As the carriage begins to move and sway he leans back onto the dark corner and dreams of blue skin, and cold cold hands, and eyes that shine with the heartless fire of alien suns.

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_~ The end ~_

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Written by oishii_tokoro (a.k.a. Silverr) for Kink Bingo round 3, card 1, kink 5,2: prostitution

AN: One of the few stories that I've written almost entirely stream of consciousness in a single sitting. Concrit welcome. (btw: Room 30? Room Thirty? Room thirty? Room Trente? Pièce trente?)

And yes, I did say Luna Euros (Lunayuros) instead of francs, didn't I? :p

(06) 11 June 2010 ~ possess.


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